The Pyramid Club
by lovablegeek
Summary: [PreRENT] Mark should learn not to go to clubs he's never heard of before. MarkRoger. [One shot]


"Hey, Mark." Roger dropped onto the couch, giving Mark one of those intent, studying looks Mark had learned usually led to some request Mark would be extremely reluctant to fulfill.

"What do you want, Roger?" Mark asked, barely glancing up from the newspaper he was reading. He recognized that look, and was hoping that if he avoided eye contact, he'd be able to get out of doing whatever it was Roger wanted him to do.

It had never worked before, true, but Mark refused to give up hope.

Roger frowned at Mark for a second, attempting an offended look. "I don't _want_ anything," he began, but after a moment's pause gave up on pretending that. Obviously Mark had already caught on. "My band's just playing somewhere tonight, and I... wanted you to come with me."

Mark looked up, trying to line up the contradictions of the look and the request, and in doing so, made eye contact. Roger was grinning hopefully at him, and Mark's suspicions were aroused again. "What's the catch?" he asked carefully.

"There's no _catch_," Roger said, shooting Mark a hurt look-- or at least, Roger's attempt at it. "Just... come with me? I want someone in the audience I know." And he smiled, his bright, charming, convince-Mark-to-do-anything smile.

And of course, Mark couldn't resist that smile-- not when he was looking directly at it, especially. And he did seem sincere... not that apparent sincerity had kept him from tricking Mark into B.S.ing his way through an entire set on the bass once, but...

"Fine, where's the show?" he said, trying not to sound like he'd just caved-- which he had.

Roger didn't answer for a second or two, and then answered with complete innocence and sincerity, "The Pyramid Club. It's down on... um..." He gestured vaguely in what Mark assumed was the general direction of this club-- Roger always had trouble with giving clear directions. The club didn't ring any bells, although Mark had a nagging thought that he'd heard the name before.

"Okay. When do we need to leave?" Mark ignored the far-too-gleeful look on Roger's face — he got the feeling he was going to regret this by the end of the night, but it was too late to back out now.

Roger bounded happily to his feet, giving Mark a hug — and somehow slightly ominous — grin. "Half an hour," he told Mark cheerfully. "You'll have fun." And that said with complete certainty, as if by saying it he could make it so.

An hour later, Mark was seriously entertaining thoughts of _murdering_ his roommate. The Pyramid Club was at first glance just another club. Music, bar, dancing people.

About fifteen minutes later, however, Mark had realized one _very_ important fact about it: it was a _gay_ club. And from the looks he was getting, the guys thought he was pretty cute.

"I am going to _kill_ Roger," he muttered for what felt like the thousandth time.

Even more infuriating, Roger seemed to _know_ just how annoyed Mark was, because every now and then he would glance over at Mark and flash him a grin before turning his attention back to his guitar and his music. It was almost as if he were _trying_ to annoy Mark as much as humanly possible-- and knowing Roger, that probably wouldn't be far off the mark.

So Mark was, around the middle of the first set, contemplating leaving right then to plan Roger's murder. His slow, painful murder.

That's when it happened. What Mark had been _dreading_. The bartender randomly set another beer down in front of him and motioned to a guy sitting a few barstools away. Mark, for the second time that night, made the mistake of making eye contact. The guy got up and walked over.

"Hi!" he said, shouting to be heard over the music. "I'm Kyle."

"Mark." He hoped maybe Kyle would go away, but...

"I haven't seen you around, you new?"

"Um... sort of? Not really?" Mark spluttered. "I just came to see the band..." He gestured helplessly at the Well Hungarians, up on stage.

"Oh, yeah?" Kyle grinned and rested a hand a little above Mark's knee, causing the filmmaker to squeak a little. "You know, if you like them, you should hear some of the other bands that play here..." As Kyle started naming off good bands, Mark shot Roger a pleading look.

This was going to be a _long_ set.

At first it seemed that Roger didn't notice Mark's predicament, but the next time he looked over to Mark and caught his pleading look, he flashed him another of those smiles and gave him a wink — what the hell he meant by that, Mark wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know. And he wouldn't have the chance to find out until the end of the set at least, which was taking _forever_, and all the while there was Kyle beside him, talking to him, his hand still on Mark's knee... God.

He didn't even notice, at first, when the set ended at last and Roger slipped off stage for a moment-- Mark was too wrapped up, just then, in thoughts of how to repay Roger for all of this, and most of all how to _escape_ this. He didn't notice, actually, until an arm looped around his waist from behind and abruptly there was Roger kissing his cheek, three-day-old scruff brushing against Mark's face. "Hey, baby," he said brightly. "D'ja miss me?"

"I... uh... what?" Mark stammered and tried to process what was going on, which was rather hard with Roger's arm around his waist. Kyle raised an eyebrow, obviously trying to decide whether or not his quarry was taken.

Roger's face was so close to Mark's that Mark could heard the vaguely exasperated sigh Roger let out, indaudible were his mouth not very close to Mark's ear. With the hand currently on Mark's waist, Roger pinched him and answered, his smile never wavering, "I _said_, did you miss me?"

And then, Mark got it, the realization dawning visibly on his face in what probably (to Kyle, at least) seemed a lot like someone brightening when the person they loved walked in a room. "Yeah, I missed you." Mark tried not to let his voice crack. "Just was having trouble hearing after all that racket." A shy teasing grin shot at Roger and oh God, just ignore the stubble that was tickling his neck. This was rather hard work, actually.

"Thought that might be the case," Roger muttered. "You have no taste in music." And then Roger was kissing him again, not _quite_ on the mouth but very close to it, and when he pulled away Mark caught a glimpse of a positively _evil_ smirk — he was enjoying this far too much. After a moment or two, Roger's eyes flickered to Kyle. "Who's this?"

"Kyle," Mark said, still flushed and about ready to kill Roger right then and there. "He got me a drink." Mark nodded to the beer (that he hadn't touched, just like the first one-- Mark could _not_ hold his alcohol, and he knew it) on the counter. Kyle smiled a little nervously at Roger, who had suddenly decided to look possessive. Mark wasn't sure at this point if he actually _was_ feeling possessive or if he was a damn good actor.

"Hey, Kyle," Roger said with a not-quite-smile Mark could see out the corner of his eye. He paused, and extended his hand for Kyle to shake after a moment, still with that vaguely possessive smirk. "I'm Roger. And I take it you've met my Mark..." There was just the slightest bit of emphasis on the _my_, and Roger's expression now said very clearly that Mark was _his_ and Kyle was not to get any ideas. Kyle was a smart guy; he read that expression in an instant and immediately backed down by sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah, we were just chatting until the set was over." Kyle said with a nervous grin. "Anyway, it was nice meeting you both. I'll see you around." And with that, he quickly retreated, cursing mentally about shy boys in new relationships-- they were _always_ too shy to tell you when they were taken.

"What the hell was that?" Mark whirled on Roger, speaking in as low a tone as possible in the club.

Roger smirked and raised an eyebrow, though he still hadn't moved his hand from around Mark's waist. "What do you think that was? I was rescuing you." He sounded as if he thought it should have been self-evident, and that Mark had to be a little dense if he hadn't known.

"By pretending t-to be my b-_boyfriend_?" Mark squeaked, trying valiantly to ignore the blush creeping up his neck and Roger's hand around his waist... and failing on both counts.

"Yeah," Roger said, rolling his eyes. He didn't actually _say_ "duh", but from his tone and expression he very clearly meant it. "If you can't tell them you're straight, Mark, you could at least have the guts to lie and tell them I'm your boyfriend."

Mark glowered... sort of. In all actuality, it just looked rather cute, but he didn't know that. He mumbled, something mostly incoherent (the only discernible bit being "I don't lie well") and refusing to make eye contact with his best friend.

Roger sighed and shook his head slowly. "Well... do. For tonight." He grinned and stepped away from Mark, _finally_ moving his hand. "I've gotta go. If anyone else talks to you, you can point to me and tell them the big scary rock star will hurt them if they touch you."

"Fine. Whatever. I'm going to kill you when we get home," he added as Roger blew him a kiss and winked. Mark sighed, looked at his untouched beer and made a face. "I am going to regret this in the morning," he muttered and took a swig, sitting back to wait out the rest of the concert.

By the time the last set ended, Mark was drunk. He'd only just finished that one beer, but being ridiculously lightweight, that's all it took. Mark saw Roger coming towards him and grinned wildly. "Roger!" he called brightly. "Your music is shit!"

Roger raised an eyebrow as he walked up to Mark, guitar in hand-- he'd apparently left his band to their own devices. "You've been drinking," he remarked, a little surprised.

"On'y a little," Mark declared, pointing a finger in Roger's face. "'N it's _your_ fault."

Roger stopped directly in front of Mark, blinking at the finger now less than an inch from his nose. "How...?" he asked, sounding more amused than anything else.

"'Cause," Mark declared, getting a bit unsteadily off his barstool. "You pretenended to be m'boyfriend 'n' told me t'lie an' I _can't_."

"Well, it seemed to work," Roger commented wryly, taking a step back to allow Mark to get off the barstool, his free hand held out slightly, probably in preparation to steady Mark if necessary. "I didn't notice anyone else really bothering you. Besides, why does it matter if you tell people I'm your boyfriend? It's not like anyone here cares."

"'S not what I was _talking_ about!" Mark stamped his foot slightly and stumbled a bit from the impact. "Oh, wow, the room's tipping..."

Roger stepped forward again, his hand suddenly on Mark's waist, supposedly to steady him. "No, you're tipping," he corrected with a bit of a smile. "And I don't think _you_ know what you're talking about."

"Do too." Mark insisted, leaning into Roger a bit, mostly to steady himself. "'M talking 'bout the _other_ thing." He was pouting slightly, which was a rather strange sight.

Roger frowned down at him. "_What_ other thing?" Quite obviously, he was not following Mark's line of thought. Then again, it was unlikely any sober person could have exactly followed Mark's line of thought at that moment.

"The telling them I'm _straight_ thing," Mark said slowly, as if explaining something to a small child (although the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was... far from sober).

For several seconds, Roger simply stared at him, confusion evident on his face. "What?"

Mark stared back and shook his head. "You're 'n _idiot_," he said simply, and got up — a bit wobbly — on tiptoes to kiss Roger's cheek. Roger hesitated only a moment, mostly out of surprise, and then turned his head a little to kiss Mark on the lips, pulling him to him tightly with the arm around his waist. After several long moments he relaxed his grip on him and moved back just slightly, giving Mark a superior, far too amused smirk.

"You _are_ drunk," he commented at last. Mark seemed to be shocked to the point that he was incapable of speech, judging by the way his mouth was opening and closing while no sound came out. In all honesty, the kiss had shocked him mostly-sober, and he was now trying to decide of there was _any_ way he could A) deny it happened, B) recover and carry on, or C) get Roger to do it again.

Apparently realizing that Mark would be useless for actual speech any time soon, Roger arched an eyebrow at him. "So then... what the hell was your problem?"

"I... I... d-don't... I..." Mark took a deep breath, painfully aware of Roger's arm around his waist. "Wh-what was... I mean... um..." Mark made a bit of a face, cursing his brain for not working right. A few deep breaths later, Mark tried again, looking resolutely at Roger's guitar case. "Why'd you do that?"

Roger simply shrugged. "I dunno. 'Cause you kissed me. Or... tried to. You kinda missed."

Mark blushed brighter than he already was. "I wasn't aiming f-for your m-mouth," he muttered, contemplating whether he wanted Roger's arm off his waist _right then_ or never.

"So?" Roger asked, seeming not to _care_ where Mark had been aiming. "You still missed."

Mark couldn't really argue with that, which showed that the alcohol was still having some effect on him. "Oh," he mumbled, glancing at the arm around his waist. It was really rather preoccupying him at the moment, and understandably so. "Um... Rog? When are you p-planning on letting go?" he asked almost inaudibly, not knowing what answer he was praying to hear.

"I wasn't, really," Roger said, and flashed Mark a wicked grin. "I mean, if nothing else it'll at least keep you from falling over, right?"

"You... y-you're..." Mark spluttered, trying to find words to describe his exasperation. "I give up," is what he finally settled on, sulkily.

"Okay," Roger answered calmly, still with that positively _evil_ little smiles. He shifted a little, settling his arm a little more firmly around Mark's waist-- and no, definitely _not_ planning on moving it any time soon. "You wanna go home?"

Mark looked at Roger for a long moment, trying to straighten out his emotions. Anger, for having to put up with that evil bastard; exasperation, because he didn't seem to understand why Mark was flustered; regret, for not having said anything sooner... but overshadowing all of them was the sheer happiness of having Roger's arm so possessively around his waist, as if to let the whole world (and Mark) know exactly who Mark belonged to. With a sigh he saved only for Roger (the jackass), Mark smiled up at his best friend/roommate/maybe something more. "Sounds like a good idea," he said finally.

He did, however, make a mental note as they walked out to never go to a club he'd never heard of before ever again.


End file.
